


Biloxi

by Brenda



Series: Everything Is Bigger In Texas [2]
Category: CW Network RPF, Supernatural RPF
Genre: Bisexual Chris, Bisexual Jensen, Blow Jobs, Drinking, F/M, Gen, Hand Jobs, Karaoke, Love Letter To The South, M/M, Not-Quite-Mid-Life Crisis, Pre-SPN, Road Trips, Sexual Tension, Shut Up And Fuck Already
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-18
Updated: 2013-08-18
Packaged: 2017-12-23 22:41:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/931917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris has lost his way.  Lucky for him, Jensen's good at finding shit.  Prequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/931941">Bottom's Up</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Biloxi

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ in Feb of 2007.

_It's always about a girl. Except when it isn't –_  
  


There's a fine art in feeling sorry for one's self and Chris likes to think that he's got it pretty well set. This process normally involves a fifth of Jack, some of his brother in-law's weed, and his guitar. But he's been known to change his routine when the occasion warrants.

Because, sometimes, when life kicks you in the balls, the only thing you can do is crawl home.  
  
  
_A good friend will laugh at your jokes and support you when the chips are down. A true friend? Will also kick your ass when you need it –_  
  
  
Chris is sitting in his sister's kitchen, jeans and wife-beater stained with food and Play-doh, and bouncing his eight-month old niece, Rose, on his knee. His three year-old nephew, Caleb, is running up and down the hallway, waving a toy fire truck and yelling his fool head off like a banshee, and Chris would trade everything he doesn't own for just five minutes of silence.

Which is how Jensen finds him when he opens the door, strolling in, sunlight haloing him like some hero of old. Caleb shrieks in recognition and launches himself at Jensen's leg. Jensen laughs and swings him up, and Caleb immediately sticks his thumb in his mouth, surveying Chris from his newly lofted position.

"Jennifer out?" Jensen asks by way of greeting. Like it had only been six hours, instead of six months, since they've seen – or even talked to – each other. Not that Chris is any better at calling or emailing or even leaving a myspace message than Jensen is, but Chris doesn't care about that at the moment.

"Errands," he replies. He thinks his smile might split his face. Damn, but Jensen's a sight for sore eyes, even if he has gone way too tanned and far too Hollywood these days. "There's beer, if you want one."

"I'll grab two." Jensen bounces Caleb down the hallway, and Rose stares after the two of them with a rapt, wide-eyed gaze.

"Deserting me already for the pretty boy," Chris laments, and blows a raspberry on her belly.

***

Later, after the kids are blessedly napping, and Chris and Jensen are on the back porch with a bottle of Jim Beam between them, Chris feels it's safe enough to start asking his questions. Jennifer won't be home for a couple of hours yet, and Curt's out of town until Sunday.

"I know why I'm here," he says, and passes the bottle. "Question is, why're you?"

"Why else would I be here?" Jensen takes a large swig, throat working overtime. It's warm enough that Jensen's also stripped down to his wife-beater, and it's obvious to Chris that Jensen's been hitting the gym recently. His arms and chest are ripped. Must be a lot of downtime on that Superman show of his.

"Guess you heard, then," Chris finally says, when Jensen doesn't say anything else.

"Guess I did."

"Look, man, I was gonna --"

"Save it. You don't owe me."

"I really _was_ gonna call you."

"Okay."

It should have been enough, and, under other circumstances, it might've been. But this is Jensen and this is _family_ , and family's one thing you don't mess with, whether it's blood or not.

"She thought I was fucking around on her."

"Yeah, Steve mentioned." Jensen rubs a hand over a shadowed chin. "Well, either you did or you didn't."

"I didn't."

"I'm not finished," Jensen says, and takes another sip from the bottle. "But if she was that insecure, then you're better off."

"Two years, man."

"Live and learn."

On anyone else, it would sound like a cliché. Chris just cuffs Jensen across the back of the head, and invites him to stay the night.

_  
The best stories never start at the beginning –_

  
"Pack a bag, man, we're heading out after breakfast."

Jensen's idea of a wake-up call. Chris throws a pillow at him and rolls back to sleep. It's too early to think about moving.

An hour later, fortified by a country breakfast – chicken-fried steak, eggs over easy, biscuits, and two cups of coffee strong enough to strip paint – Chris thinks he's coherent enough for conversation. "Where we goin'?"

He knows better than to say that he doesn't feel up to going anywhere. He learned a long time ago that Jensen hasn't the foggiest idea of what 'no' even means.

"Gambling," Jensen replies with a smirk. Even in plaid pajama bottoms, a dingy blue t-shirt, and his hair sticking up in all directions, he radiates that same air of confidence he's always had. Caleb and Rose keep staring at him like he's some damned superhero or something. Hell, even Jennifer's casting glances at him like she's not a happily married woman.

Chris thinks they could all be half right. Long as Chris has known him, Jensen's had this aura of indestructibility.

"Don't you think I've had enough gambling?" he asks, instead.

Jensen pops a piece of biscuit into his mouth and grins. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. Jennifer, talk some sense into your brother."

"You gonna get him involved in anything I'll have to represent you for?"

Jensen puts a hand to his heart, and gives his most puppy-wounded expression. His eyes appear even greener than usual. "Would I let him get into that kind of trouble?"

Jennifer, thankfully, has seen that look before. The stare she pins on him is part-mother, part-lawyer. "Jensen, honey, you'd hold his hand all the way down."

"Well, maybe." Jensen doesn't even have the decency to look affronted. "But that's what friends do. Don't change the fact that he needs this."

Jennifer half-twists in her seat to give Chris a long look. Chris can't read her expression, but he fights the urge to squirm. "You should go," she finally says. "Before your ass is permanently glued to my couch."

"Good." Jensen's smile is smug, assured. "That settles that, then."

_  
Every cliché has a grain of truth to it. That's why they're clichés –_

  
The thing about Jensen is, once he gets an idea into his head, that's all there is to it. Fighting it doesn't do a damn bit of good – it's like Jensen forgets simple English or something. And the worst thing is, it goddamn works.

Which is how Chris finds himself, over his considerable objections, in the passenger seat of Jensen's brand new bright-ass silver Dodge Viper – ("Figured we may as well travel in style," Jensen had said, when Chris had asked about the ride) – with the top down, speakers blaring Ted Nugent's wailing guitar. Jensen's humming along, flashing a grin from beneath aviator sunglasses that should be too big for his face, but somehow, they look just right.

"When the hell did you buy this thing?" Chris asks, once they've left the dust of Norman behind, the open freeway glimmering around them like a promise. The car is everything he hates about L.A., all rolled up in shiny silver and chrome. But it fits this new Jensen all the way – Hollywood star, out to see and be seen. Well, except for the music. At least Jensen hasn't completely lost his roots.

Jensen turns the radio marginally down. Ted goes from wail to growl. "Coupla weeks ago," he answers. "Figured I owed myself a gift."

Yeah, Chris supposes he did. At least one of them has a career that's going places, and, really, who the hell is Chris to judge how Jensen spends his hard-earned money. Even if it does fit just about every pattern in the books. "Congrats on the pilot getting picked up, by the way," he says, instead, and mostly means it.

"Yeah, thanks." Jensen taps out the drumbeat on the steering wheel with his thumbs. Everything about him is relaxed and easy. Chris wishes he remembered what that was like. "Be nice to have my own show."

"When do you start filming?"

"Late July. Back up in Vancouver. Next to the Smallville lot, if you can believe that."

Chris nods, and looks out at the plains passing by them in a blur. "That's cool. Least you know the place."

"Hey, look, you know if this thing hits..."

"Don't, man." Chris tilts his battered, trusty cowboy hat low on his head and settles back in his seat. "Don't need your charity."

If Jensen answers, Chris can't hear it over the wind.

_  
The biggest problem with getting away from it all is that you eventually get to where you were going –_

  
It's an hour later before Jensen speaks up. The Nuge has been replaced by old school Aerosmith. Dusty plains have given way to slightly rolling hills, but the scenery's still mostly the same.

"You know what the problem is with Oklahoma?"

"Huh?" Chris pushes his hat back, and props his knees against the glove box. He ignores Jensen's glare.

"The problem with Oklahoma. Do you know what it is?"

Chris shrugs, curious enough to play along. "Enlighten me, Obi Wan."

"It smells like skunk."

The defense is mostly reflex. "Don't be putting down my home state now."

"You were _born_ in Texas." A fact that Jensen reminds Chris of every chance he gets. Like most Texans, Jensen can't conceive of the notion that not everyone falls in love with the state at first glance.

"Yeah, but Oklahoma's _home_."

"Well, it still smells like skunk," Jensen replies. "And there are more churches than people."

Chris can't rightly argue with that. Much as he wants to, just on general principle. They'd passed at least fifteen signs for different places to worship in the last thirty miles.

He crawls between the seats to grab a can of Coors Light from the stocked cooler, and slides it in his coozie. It reads 'Save a Horse, Ride a Cowboy' – his sister's idea of a joke. "Getcha a Coke?" He may as well make the best of the situation.

"No, but you can grab me a Yoo-hoo."

"Shit, man, you packed Yoo-hoos?"

Jensen gives Chris a look that suggests he's lost his mind. "The hell kinda road trip would it be without 'em?"

"Speaking of..." And this is just the opening Chris has been wanting all day. He hands Jensen his bottle, then cracks open his beer and takes a long swallow. Cold, clear and crisp, definitely hitting the spot. "Man, I know you. I've known you a long ass time, and you don't do a fucking thing without a reason."

Jensen takes a swig of his Yoo-hoo. "Does anyone?"

"Seriously, Jen, why're you doing this?" Chris points out at the passing trees and billboards with his free hand. "Why're we _here_?"

When Jensen shrugs, Chris notices the play of muscle in his shoulders, the small trail of sweat rolling from his jaw to disappear under the neckline of a faded t-shirt. "Me and Dave figured you needed a real break."

"Dave?" Chris jerks his mind back to the conversation at hand. Figures Dave would be behind this. Chris doesn't know why the thought that Dave had conned Jensen into playing Good Samaritan pisses him off. Lots of shit pisses him off these days. Being dumped and unemployed'll do that. "Since when do you listen to Dave?"

Jensen pushes up his sunglasses and gives Chris a quick glance. His eyes are impossibly green, lashes longer than a woman's. "Since I felt like getting the hell out of L.A. for a couple of weeks and wanted to see one of my best friends. You got a problem with that?"

"No," Chris snaps, and slumps in his seat. He's a goddamn charity case for his friends now.

"Oh, come on, lighten up." Jensen turns his gaze back to the road, and pats Chris' knee. "This'll be fun. You, me, the open road, hanging out..."

"Mmhmm."

Jensen puts his hand back on the steering wheel. Chris refuses to admit he misses the easy touch. "Jesus, I'd forgotten what a surly bastard you are sometimes."

"Yeah, well, maybe I didn't feel like being forced into going to fucking Mississippi," Chris replies, and drains the rest of his beer.

"Oh, shut up," Jensen retorts, irritation in every line of his body. "What're you, 12? No one _forced_ you into the car."

"Jennifer just as good as kicked me out."

"For your own good."

Chris just stays stubbornly silent, and grabs another beer from the cooler. After a while, Jensen turns up the radio.

_  
The only difference between ignorance and stupidity is pure willfulness –_

  
Chris thinks he must've dozed off or something, because the next thing he knows, they've stopped at one of those big-ass truck stop convenience stores. When he rubs bleary eyes and sits up, stretching out the crick in his neck, Jensen's pumping gas and staring out at the horizon like it holds the secrets to the universe. Judging from the square, stubborn set of his jaw, he's deep in thought about something.

Good, Chris thinks, and climbs out of the car. Means he can stretch his legs in peace. Maybe grab some chips or beef jerky.

The air-conditioned cold slaps against him when he steps into the store, and he shivers a little, rubbing his arms as he wanders up the aisles of cheap souvenirs, bad compilation CDs and audio books to find the junk food. There's a slender, dark-haired girl standing in front of the Hostess products – she can't be more than 19, 20 at the most – but the smile she gives Chris when he comes into her line of sight is filled with knowledge as old as Eve.

"I know who you are." Her lips are shiny wet, stained bright red from the can of Hawaiian Fruit Punch in her hand. "You're Lindsey McDonald."

"Well, actually, that's just a character I've played." Once, he'd thought that show would be a stepping stone to so much more. Now he knows it's a curse he'll take with him to his grave.

"Whatever." She dismisses it with an airy wave. "I've never sucked anyone famous's cock before."

For a split second, Chris thinks about walking away. He's known girls like her his entire life, and girls like her are one of the reasons he'd high-tailed it out of L.A. as fast as he could. Girls like her are one of the reasons he's single, and not by choice. Then her tongue flickers across those obscenely full lips, and what the fuck. A blowjob's a blowjob. Be nice to feel something other than irritation with the universe, and hell, it might even silence that niggling voice in his head. The one that's been constantly telling him, ever since he'd crawled home with his tail tucked between his legs, that this is it. This is all he'll ever be.

He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and starts to steer her towards the restrooms in the back of the store. "What's your name, sugar?"

She introduces herself as Ellen, and she's as good as her word. The second they step into the tiny, cramped restroom, she pushes him against the wall and slides to her knees, nimble fingers making short work of his belt buckle and zipper. Her lips wrap around his cock like a pro, and all Chris can do is bury his hands in pixie-ish hair and hold on.

His hips are pumping helplessly, moans echoing off the walls, mixed in with her appreciative, porn-star moans and humming, when the door bounces open. Chris lifts bleary, lust-crossed eyes as a shadow fills the space, and squints until the shape comes into focus. Jensen, looking coldly furious and...irritated, maybe. Disappointed? Hard to tell, and Chris doesn't really care. The girl doesn't even look up or stop. Maybe she's used to an audience. Chris doesn't care about that, either.

He meets Jensen's gaze, the showdown silent, until focusing becomes too much and his eyelids flutter shut. The next time he opens them, Jensen's gone.

When he comes out of the store, empty-handed, and still reeling a little from the intensity of his orgasm, Jensen's leaning against the side of the car, jaw twitching, arms crossed. He looks more pissed than Chris' granddad had that one time he'd 'borrowed' the tractor for a joyride and had wound up getting it stuck in a riverbed.

"Save it," Chris says, when he gets close enough. He knows that look and he's not in the mood. "She was over 18."

"And?"

Chris stops, throws up his hands. His voice is louder than he'd like. "And I felt like letting off a little steam."

"Are you fucking _kidding_ me?"

"No."

"Is this really how you want to spin this? Letting off _steam_?"

"What the fuck's that supposed to mean?"

Jensen jabs out with a finger, then lets out a short breath and shakes his head. For the first time, Chris can see shadows under Jensen's eyes. "You know what, man, if you wanna dick yourself over, that's fine."

"Good," Chris replies, voice dripping with sarcasm. He'll be damned if he'll apologize for enjoying himself with...whatever the hell her name had been. "I'm glad I have your permission to live my life."

"Shut up." Jensen's voice is deep with authority and anger. "You don't have any respect for yourself, man, that's one thing, but don't fucking _lie_ about why you're doing it. You wanna use some teenage starfucker for an ego stroke, you go right on ahead. But it ain't gonna solve anything."

Chris opens his mouth to argue, but Jensen's already brushed past him and yanked open the driver's side door. "Get in. My parents want us to stop there for the night."

"Your parents?" Christ, they were driving right through Dallas, weren't they?

Jensen glares at him from across the hood. "You got a fucking problem with my parents now?"

"I didn't say that."

"Good. Now get in the goddamn car."

_  
Life tends to complicate even the best of intentions –_

  
Under normal circumstances, Chris loves having dinner with Jensen's parents. Over the last few years, he's gotten to know them fairly well, what with his folks only living about 200 miles away. He's spent quite a bit of time here with Jensen – but then again, he and Jensen aren't normally fighting when they're here.

Of course, he's not really certain what they're fighting about this time, but it doesn't stop the meal – collard greens, ham and some of Jensen's mom's world-class homemade jalapeno cornbread – from sticking in his throat.

He looks up from pushing his fork around on his plate when he feels a soft hand on his arm. Jensen's mother smiles at him, and her eyes crinkle just like her son's. "How you doin', honey?"

"Fine, ma'am. Enjoying the downtime," he lies.

"I'm so glad." She casts a fond glance at her son, who gives her a small smile. "Jensen hasn't been able to talk about anything else since he's been here – he's been looking forward to this road trip of yours."

"Is that right?" Chris mutters, mostly to himself. Across the table, Jensen's busy staring down at his plate. He doesn't look at Chris for the rest of the meal.

***

He finds Jensen on the back porch after his parents have gone up to bed. Jensen's rocking in the ancient glider, the movements squeaky, loud in the suburban quiet. Jensen's mom's prized yellow roses are in full bloom, and the rich scent drifts over in the light breeze. When Chris drops in the space next to him, Jensen scoots imperceptibly over. Chris takes it for the opportunity – and invitation – that it is.

"You gonna be pissed at me all night?" he asks in a low voice. "Because, man, I gotta tell ya, I'll take the next plane home." Not that he knows where home is right now. It sure as fuck ain't L.A. anymore, if it ever was, and it looks like Norman's off his list for awhile, unless he _wants_ his sister to mother hen him to death. Hell, maybe he could go back to Nashville. He likes Nashville. No memories.

"Chris..." Jensen stops, then shakes his head. "Never mind, man, it's nothing."

"It didn't mean anything," Chris replies. It's as close as they both know either of 'em'll get to an apology. Although Chris'll be damned if he knows why he's apologizing to Jensen like he would a girlfriend.

"If you promise to quit wallowing in your own bullshit, I might believe you."

"Fuck you." But Chris smiles as he says it.

"Not in my parents' house." Jensen's teeth gleam in the shadows.

"You think they don't know what kind of pervert they raised?"

"They have no idea." Before Chris can decipher Jensen's look, he holds out a hand. "C'mon, I'll kick your ass at air hockey instead."

"You kick my ass?" Chris lets out a loud guffaw. "Well, now, I don't see any spirits around to move you, but I guess I could give you a shove."

"Did you just...?" Jensen snaps his mouth shut, then lets out a belly laugh. "Holy fuck..."

"What, I thought that was a pretty good comeback."

"Your brain is fucked _up_ ," Jensen cackles. "Spirits move me...that's just about evangelical."

"More churches than people," Chris reminds him, and Jensen's laughter stays with him as they head down to the game room in the basement.

Later that night, sleeping in Jensen's old room, with its trophies and awards on the wall, and a pair of worn baseball cleats newly dusted on a shelf of honor, with Jensen's soft, reassuring snores in the twin bed beside him, Chris slips into slumber. And dreams of wandering, lost in a forest, until a freckle-faced, tow-headed kid in a baseball cap with a wide grin takes his hand to lead him home.

_  
There's no shame in getting lost. Only in not asking for directions –_

  
The thing about traveling with Jensen is that he moves on Island Time. The actual destination don't mean a damn thing, and Chris has yet to see the day when Jensen's ever driven straight through to anywhere. Which is why he's not surprised when Jensen suggests a quick game of 9 holes at breakfast. Steve's dad had gotten Jensen into the game – after unsuccessfully trying to recruit Chris – and now he's surrounded by golf fanatics. But, the good thing is, he _can_ drink beer while golfing, even if it is well before noon.

And, at least it's a beautiful morning – one of those poetic, wispy cloud, azure sky deals that make a man appreciate being alive.

"You do realize this is _the_ most retarded game ever," Chris says as Jensen steers the golf cart to the next hole. He'd insisted on driving. Chris is just as happy to let him – means he can drink more. "Just so we're clear."

"You're _from_ Texas," Jensen says with a sad shake of his head. "More golf courses than Waffle Houses. You've got to appreciate your heritage, man."

"Didn't we already have this talk? I _live_ in Oklahoma. Which means I like the Sooners. Football. Y'know, a real sport."

Jensen hops out of the cart and Chris follows suit. "Golf is a real sport."

"If you have to drive a cart from one goal to the next, it's not a real sport."

"I don't even know why we're friends," Jensen says mournfully.

"Because I don't always agree with your sorry ass, that's why."

Jensen waves a regal hand. "Shut up and pass me the 5-iron."

"What, with this wind?"

Jensen throws his head back and laughs, the sound carrying to the trees surrounding them. "You're a fucking walking, talking contradiction, man."

Chris wants to ask what the hell he's talking about, but he's afraid that Jensen might tell him. It's easier – safer – to pop open a Coors Light and pass over the 5-iron. But it doesn't stop him from gloating when Jensen's shot goes wide.

_  
Be careful what you wish for. Fate has a strange way of giving it to you –_

  
"Quick, what's the best sound in the world?"

Chris swallows his beer and gives the question thought. He doesn’t bother asking where the hell the question had even come from. Jensen's constantly spouting weird, non-sequitur shit, especially after they've been driving awhile.

"Okay, I got it," he finally says. "That slurping, moany kinda sound girls make when they're sucking cock. Y'know, when they're taking it real deep."

"Yeah..." Jensen's eyes look like they're about to cross. "Yeah, okay, you win."

"Hell's bells, son, there wasn't even a contest." Chris twists in his seat. "How 'bout you?"

"Uh uh, man. Nothing I can say'll even come close."

"Oh, c'mon now, don't be shy."

"Ain't shy. Just losing gracefully," Jensen says and turns up the radio. "Holy shit, I love this song!"

"Of course you do," Chris mutters, not quite under his breath.

" _Everybody's working for the weekend, everybody wants a new romance_ ," Jensen sings, bobbing his head like one of those dolls they sell of football players. When he grins at Chris, it's like the sun coming from behind a cloud, so blinding that Chris momentarily loses his breath.

" _You wanna piece of my heart_...C'mon, Chris, sing it with me. I know you know the words."

By heart, as all good Southern boys do, but Chris isn't in the mood to admit it. Jensen's obvious joy just hammers home the fact that he has no idea what it's even like anymore. "So? Maybe I'm tired of singing. Hell, maybe I'm tired of playing," he continues, warming to his subject. "Not like anyone's out there listening to me who even cares about the music. They show up at the gigs to ogle that dude from 'Angel'."

"So? They show up."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm tired of it, alright. Maybe I might quit."

"That her talking or you?"

Jensen would have to bring her up. "It matter?"

"Yeah, it does," Jensen replies, softly.

Fuck Jensen for knowing him, anyway. "Maybe it's both."

"Bullshit." The expletive is short, heartfelt.

"I mean it."

"No, you don't," Jensen retorts with a shake of his head. "You're worse than a heroin addict and you know it. You wouldn't know _how_ to quit playing, so shut up about it."

"How the hell would you know?"

"You know what, that's a stupid question, and I'm not going to answer it."

"Maybe I'll just concentrate on acting," Chris shrugs, wishing he had a shot of Jack. "Join the Hollywood rat race like you, and be a WB stable pony."

Jensen's laugh is clear and bright. "Yeah, and maybe I'll start dating Dave."

Chris cants a sly look Jensen's way. "Nah," he drawls, finally. "You don't have the tits."

Jensen just snickers and finishes singing Loverboy in a surprisingly clear tenor.

_  
Who needs water, let the motherfucker burn –_

  
Chris wakes up when the cellphone lands in his lap. "Hmph?" he mutters, wincing when bright sunlight hits his eyes. He scrambles for his hat, then glances down at the phone. "Whossit?"

"Jason wants to say hi."

"Huh." A quick glance to his right tells him it's mid-afternoon. Slept maybe an hour or so. They're on some back-roads highway or another, crawling along past orange cones and detour signs. Louisiana's nice enough, but they're constantly doing roadwork of some type. Entire state smells like tar most of the time.

"Hey, man," Jason says, when Chris finally puts the phone to his ear. Jason's voice is warm, friendly, instantly soothing. Chris is surprised, and more than a little chagrined, to realize that he hasn't seen Jason or even talked to him since Christmas and their yearly road trip. "How's the road treatin' ya?"

"Good." Chris clears his throat and sits up, feet hitting the floorboard. "How's L.A.?"

"Good. Little bit boring these days, what with you and Jensen gone, but we get by. How's my boy, anyway? Takin' good care of him?"

Chris turns to look at Jensen. He's humming along with some tune on the radio, sunglasses on, hair ruffling in the wind, henley sleeves pushed up to show off tanned forearms, strong hands easily clasping the steering wheel. "He's doin' alright," Chris finally says. "We're doin' alright together."

"Except you're still lousy in the sack," Jensen interjects, loud enough for Jason to hear.

"I am not!" Chris protests.

"Chris, man, you gotta take care of that," Jason laughs. "You know what a diva he is."

"I promise, he won't be able to walk right time I'm done," Chris jokes, and hears Jensen snort. "What, you doubt me?"

Jensen doesn't even blink. "Yep."

Jason laughs again, the sound carrying through the tiny speaker. "I'll let you two lovebirds settle this on your own. Don’t stay away too long, alright?"

"I'll be out soon," Chris promises, and closes the phone. He's already opening his mouth to call Jensen on his remark (like _hell_ he's bad in bed), then loses track of what he was about to say when he catches sight of a truly stacked young blonde on their left, lounging on the bleachers of a little league baseball field.

"Well, helloooo, cleavage."

Jensen slows and follows Chris' gaze. His laughter is slightly sardonic. "I take it we're stopping."

Chris just twists to stare at him.

"You're lucky her friend's good-looking," Jensen replies, and pulls into an empty parking space.

The game, as much as it could be called that when played by what looked like 5 year-olds, is in full swing by the time Chris and Jensen make their way into the stands and sit next to the girls. The blonde, the one with the mouth-watering cleavage and mile long legs shown to full advantage by skimpy cut-offs, glances over, then stops, and Chris can practically taste full, pouty, glossy lips. "Y'all ain't from around here." Her voice is molasses thick, and just as sweet.

"No ma'am." His own gaze is just as appreciative. Then, because one can never be too careful in these parts, he turns his attention to the field. "Any of these kids yours?"

"That's my nephew." She points to a tow-headed child in right field who seems to be more interested in the grass than the game. "He'd rather be digging up dirt, but this makes his daddy happy, so what can you do?"

"Yeah," Chris murmurs, and squints out over the field again. "What can you do?" He's been asking himself that question a lot lately.

"So, where're y'all headed?"

"Biloxi," Chris replies, and catches Jensen whispering something into the other girl's ear. The resultant giggle carries across the slow breeze. Chris watches, half-admiring, half-jealous, as Jensen buries his face in the crook of the girl's neck. He's never known anyone in his life who could charm their way into a girl's panties as fast as Jensen. Boy's got a gift.

"Gonna win big, is that it?"

Chris turns his attention back to his companion. This time, his perusal is considerably more heated. "Well, now, darlin', from where I'm sitting, I'd say I've already won."

"Aren't you sweet." She cozies closer, runs a cherry-red-tipped nail along his thigh. "You and your friend in any hurry?"

Chris doesn't even need to look at Jensen to know the answer. "Not at all."

***

The living room is redolent with the sweet scent of pot, the stickier scent of sex. Misty – she'd finally told him her name, but not until after Chris had already gotten two fingers inside her and had been nibbling on her throat – is making these insanely sexy sounds as she rides Chris' cock, the worn sofa squeaking with every shift of her body over his. On Chris' right, Jensen's sprawled next to him, cock shiny with spit as it disappears down Tami's throat. At least he thinks it's Tami – he'd been a bit busy when she'd introduced herself.

When Misty gently turns his face towards Jensen, it seems like the most natural thing in the world to lean in, brush his lips across Jensen's slack ones. Jensen moans, the sound vibrating between them, going straight to Chris' cock, and he deepens the kiss. A surprisingly soft tongue curls around his, and he comes just like that, kissing Jensen, slow and easy.

_  
Hindsight is the worst indulgence a man can have –_

  
When Chris wakes up the next morning in their motel room, sticky and sore and still a little bit stoned, Jensen's just come in from his run. Chris struggles to sit up, rubbing his eyes as he looks at Jensen – his shirt's matted to his chest, arms drenched in sweat, hair spiky from the wind. His skin gleams, but it's nothing compared to his mega-watt smile.

"Hopping in the shower," he says, and strips off his shirt. "There's a Cracker Barrel up the road if you wanted breakfast. My treat."

He disappears into the bathroom, but leaves the door open. Chris can hear the shower start and, for one long, sleep-deprived moment, he wants to stand and wander into the bathroom and find out what Jensen tastes like mixed with sweat.

When it's his turn for the shower, he closes the door firmly behind him.

***

The Cracker Barrel is full of mostly truckers and old folks and smells of country biscuits and maple syrup. Normally, it's one of Chris' favorite places to eat. Today, he wonders how he's gonna force anything down his throat.

Jensen's halfway through his stack of buttermilk pancakes (with enough syrup to drown a horse, and, on any other day, Chris would give him the usual shit for it) when Chris decides the silence is too much. He can't do this. Can't watch the way Jensen's lips close around the tines of his fork, and he can't handle the thought that he might've fucked up one of his truest friendships in one stoned moment.

"Hey, Jensen."

Jensen glances up, but Chris can't put a finger on his expression. "Yeah?"

Everything Chris wants to say – _I'm sorry, won't happen again, we were drunk, stoned, horny, it should never, and let's just move on_ – dries up under the weight of Jensen's steady gaze.

"What?"

"We're, uh..."

"We're?" Jensen prompts, and Chris shakes himself out of his stupor long enough to string together a coherent sentence.

"You know. I mean...I ain't. I mean, yeah, I, y'know, experimented a little back when I first got to Hollywood myself, but, I don't want you thinking –"

Jensen's expression instantly shutters. "Unfuckingbelievable." He shakes his head, and drains his coffee cup. "It was a _kiss_. Not like I sucked your dick, man. Don't have a heart attack over it."

For a moment, all Chris wants to do is argue – then common sense sets in. "Yeah," he finally mutters, staring down at his pancakes in fascination. "You're right." Best to put it out of his mind, he thinks, and reaches for the pats of Country Crock on the table.

_  
Self-delusion is the opiate of men who think too much –_

  
"Here," Chris says, as Jensen catches the silver thumb ring neatly in mid-air. "Now you can tell Jason I've made an honest man out of you."

Stopping in Natchitoches had been Jensen's idea. Chris had just been happy to escape the weighted silence in the car. Wandering around the old, cobblestone streets, letting the sticky weight of the breeze settle into him, had done a lot to clear his mind. He'd been an idiot, and the thing is, he knows it. People did stupid shit while they were stoned all the time, and this isn't the first time he's been in this sort of position with a friend.

But it's the first time he's not sure if he's doing the right thing. Jensen's call, though, and all Chris can do is sit back and hope for the best. Not an ideal situation, but what else can he do? Like Jensen'd said, ain't much to talk about.

Just a kiss.

Jensen slides the ring onto his right thumb. It glimmers in the sunlight, reflecting bright and hot. "Perfect fit." Jensen's grin is movie-star wide. Seeing it feels like absolution. "But I'm still not sleeping with you 'til we're married."

Chris laughs and moves down the cramped aisle to the turquoise bracelets. Teasing and open, the way they've always been, and he can breathe easy for the first time all day. "It'll be a short engagement," he promises, and picks up one of the bracelets. His sister'll love this one.

_  
It's always easier to blame the booze –_

  
Under most normal circumstances, another good thing about traveling with Jensen is that he understands the rule of stopping for a drink or three as soon as darkness settles in. Chris is pretty sure that Jensen's got a sixth sense of the best roadhouse-type joints, the types of places that cater to serious rednecks looking to get their serious drink on and maybe play a little pool or darts.

The place they're at now – some no-name bar in the outskirts of Lafayette – is no exception. The jukebox is playing old rock and older blues, the bartenders are no-nonsense and the clientele is a pretty healthy mixture of fresh-faced military guys and locals out for a good time. The beer on tap is fresh and cold, the small dance floor packed, and everyone seems to be relaxed and loose.

Except Chris. He's wound tight as a drum and not even three Jacks with beer chasers have relaxed him. Be easier to deal with if he knew _why_ he was so wound up. Bad night, bad life, hell, who knows. But he can't shake it.

Jensen had disappeared the second they'd walked in the door, after clapping Chris on the back and wishing him good luck, but Chris has spent plenty of time alone in bars before, so that ain't it. Plenty of good-looking women in skimpy shorts, halter-tops and high heels, so lack of pussy ain't it, either. But the pissed-off, itching for a fight feeling won't leave him.

He looks around the bar again – at everyone hanging out, having a good time, living their lives. He doesn't belong here. He doesn't belong with these people, not anymore.

The _hell_ he doesn't. If not here, then where the hell does he fit?

"Buy me a drink, darlin'?"

Chris turns on his best smile and twists in his stool, thankful for the distraction from thoughts best not realized. And what a fine distraction – small and blonde and busty, with an open flirtatious smile and cotton-candy pink lips that look invitingly soft. "What's your poison, hon?"

"Gin and tonic." She takes the stool next to him while he orders her drink and another for himself. She holds out a brightly manicured hand. "I'm Crystal."

"Chris." His palm lingers against hers.

"Noticed you when you came in." Her lips close over her straw when she takes a sip of her drink, and Chris watches in appreciation. "You and your friend."

"Yeah?" Chris asks, but he's not really paying attention. He's too busy trying to figure out how many drinks he'll need to buy her before she takes him home.

"Yeah. Um, your, um, friend...he's... Didn't he used to play Eric Brady on Days Of Our Lives?"

Lust instantly slaps right back into irritation. Recognized Jensen and not him, and the shame of even _thinking_ like that pisses him off even more.

"Yes," he answers shortly, and downs his shot. The burn down his throat matches the one in his gut. "That why you sashayed over here? Hoping for an invitation?"

"No, I was just cur—"

"Because, lemme tell you something about Jensen," he continues, over whatever half-hearted protest she'd been about to make. "Yeah, he'll take you home, show you a good time, but, at the end of the day, all you are is a piece of ass. He's Hollywood now."

He leaves her, slack-jawed and confused, at the bar, and half-stalks, half-sways over to the booths. The whiskey's catching up with him a hurry, saturating everything in a red blur. Jensen's in the corner, laughing and nuzzling the neck of some stunner of a chick who should be on a runaway in Paris. Figures Jensen would've landed the prettiest damn girl in the room. Fucking cocksucker.

She notices Chris first and passion-hazed eyes are warm in welcome. "Looking to join us?" Her voice is lilting, carries a hint of Creole.

"Not tonight," he tells her, and pins Jensen with a glare that would flay a lesser man. Jensen, the prick, barely blinks. Too busy making another conquest, another notch. "We're leaving."

"Bye."

"No. _We_ are leaving." Chris'll be damned if Jensen gets lucky while he fumes all by himself back at the motel.

"Dude, who pissed in your Cheerios?"

"Now, Jensen. I'm not kidding."

Jensen looks like he's about to argue, and Chris almost wishes he would. Then Jensen murmurs something in the girl's ear that seems to soothe her, because she lets Jensen slide out of the booth without a protest. "After you, man."

They're four steps into the parking lot when Jensen stops, lays a cool hand on Chris' arm. "Mind telling me what the hell's going on?"

"I'm done drinking."

"Since when?"

"Since right the fuck now."

"So, what, I'm supposed to go back to the motel with you and twiddle my thumbs, tell you a goddamn bedtime story until you get your shit together?"

"Maybe."

"Fuck this, man, I ain't your goddamn wife." Jensen whirls around and takes a step back towards the bar.

Chris sidesteps in front of him, fists clenching and unclenching. "You're not going back in there."

"Watch me."

"Yeah, that's it, fucking leave me _again_ , you selfish cocksucker. Fuck you, anyway." Chris wobbles forward on unsteady feet, Jack Daniels and anger fueling him in equal measures. This is one fight he knows he can win. "I don't need you. You and your pilot and your shiny car and shiny L.A. life –" Each word is punched out for maximum effect. "– Hollywood plastic piece of shit."

Chris is savagely proud of the hurt that flickers across Jensen's face, before it's replaced with stone-cold fury. "Is that what you really think? Huh?" Jensen doesn't wait for an answer. He just hauls back, telegraphing the shit out of it, but Chris can't move back in time. The first punch catches him square across the jaw, the second exploding across his eye like a flashfire.

His answering swing is wild, instinctive, but concrete enough to knock the breath from Jensen's lungs. Chris can't remember when he'd last heard a more satisfying sound.

Jensen's more sober, with a longer reach, but Chris is used to whaling on men bigger than him. He takes another swing, connects solidly with a dull thud at Jensen's abdomen. Jensen coughs out a surprised gasp, and Chris uses the momentum to shove Jensen backwards, grappling for a hold. Jensen twists, lowers his head as a battering ram and spins out of the hold, fist connecting wildly, a glancing blow across Chris' ribs.

His chest is heaving with exertion when he finally manages to sweep a leg under Jensen's feet. They both land hard on the ground, Chris on top of Jensen. Jensen grunts in surprise and pain, then shoves unsuccessfully, trying to dislodge Chris. His eyes are bright with murder.

Chris raises his fist for another blow, and, just as quickly, lowers it. What the hell is he doing? This isn't him. Not anymore. He'd thought he was over this petty bullshit.

"Get off me," Jensen spits out.

"Look, I'm not." Chris sits back, holding both hands up. "Okay? I'm not. Can't we just –"

Jensen's eyes glitter in the streetlight, and each word is a razor-sharp dig. "If you wanna get your inner teen drama on, have at it. Be jealous of the whole fucking world about what you're not getting. But don't drag me into it."

"Jen..."

"Uh uh." Jensen shakes his head, then winces. It only seems to make him madder. "I ain't your property or your girlfriend or even your piece of ass on the side. I don't _owe_ you anything."

"Look, godammit, I'm trying to tell you I'm sorry," Chris snaps. He can already feel the headache looming right between his eyes, knows it'll be a nasty fucker. No more'n he deserves.

"Fucking right you are. Now get the fuck off me."

Well, he'd gotten his fight. Gotta live with the consequences now. "Yeah, fine," he says, and climbs off, still a little wobbly, holding out a hand. Jensen gives it one contemptuous glance, then pushes himself up from his hands and knees. He disappears the second he's upright, back ramrod straight as he heads off across the parking lot.

Chris waits around the bar for an hour, nursing a club soda, then finally makes his way to the motel and hits the sack, face and body still hurting.

_  
Tomorrow's just another chance to fuck up worse than you've done today –_

  
Jensen's still MIA the next morning when Chris drags himself out of bed and hobbles to the shower. In the harsh, unforgiving light of the bathroom, his bruises shine like beacons. He pops four ibuprofen and lets the hot water do the rest. His head still throbs with hangover and regret.

He's not really hungry, but he knows he needs to eat something, so he throws on a clean shirt and a pair of cut-offs and makes his way across the parking lot to the Waffle House. No one even looks at him twice. But then, he reckons, a place like this has seen far worse than his beat up face.

He orders a bowl of grits with cheese and a cup of coffee, and has just poured Tabasco over the grits (best hangover cure ever invented) when Jensen slides in the booth across from him. Jensen's lips are red and puffy and Chris can see a large bruise disappearing under the collar of his shirt. The sense of satisfaction feels a little hollow in the daylight.

"Look, about last –"

"Forget it."

"And the –"

"I said forget it. We're cool."

"I don't believe you."

"I don't care."

Chris thinks about pressing the issue, but Jensen's a stubborn son of a bitch when he's got a mad on, and Chris is inclined to let him ride it out. "Alright," he finally replies. They'll deal with it when Jensen's ready. "Pass me the salt?"

"We're not that cool." Jensen signals for their waitress. He doesn't give Chris another glance. "Get it yourself."

_  
Paradise is normally where you least expect it –_

  
"Pull over."

"Why?"

"Dude selling boiled peanuts at that stand."

Jensen pulls into a small gravel parking lot and they both get out. The sun's beating down on the top of Chris' hat like it's full August instead of May, and when he looks out at the highway, the asphalt shimmers like an oasis in the middle of the desert. The breeze is barely stirring the air, but at least it's cool.

There's a wobbly picnic table next to the small stand. Jensen's not sure it'll hold their combined weight, but Chris thinks it looks sturdy enough. For a long time, they sit side by side, sucking on peanut shells and looking out over the horizon.

"I am sorry," Chris says, after he thinks enough time's passed and Jensen's in a more mellow mood. Man should always own up to his fuck ups.

"Yeah," Jensen replies quietly, squinting out at the nearby trees. "Me too. Not for hitting you –"

"Course not."

Jensen smiles briefly. "But for assuming."

"Naw, man, you did the right thing." Chris stops before speaking again. This part's harder for him than the actual apology. "I _am_ proud of you. Proud of everything you've accomplished. Don't ever think I'm not."

"No, I know you are." Jensen claps a warm, weighted hand on Chris' knee. His thumb rasps across worn denim in a light caress, cool metal of the ring glinting in the sun. "Proud of you, too, man."

"Me?" Chris snorts. "I'm just some mediocre son of a bitch that got lucky."

"So what? _You_ got lucky. Who cares if you earned it or if you didn't bleed enough for it?" Jensen's look is cool, freckles standing out in stark relief from around brilliant green eyes. Chris can't remember Jensen ever looking so serious. "Enjoy it while it lasts, brother, because it doesn't. Nothing does."

_  
You can bullshit yourself until the cows come home, but that still won't make it true –_

  
"Aw, hell no, you have _got_ to be kidding me."

Chris takes another look around the bar in the hopes that the karaoke set-up at the far end might've disappeared. No such luck. What the _hell_ is Jensen thinking?

Jensen pats a friendly hand across Chris' back. His smirk is as gleeful as a kid's. "C'mon, it'll be fun."

"I'm not in the mood to get up in front of a bunch of people and sing tonight, man." Tonight or any night of the past few months, if he's honest with himself.

Jensen strides to the clipboard on the table without looking back. "Yeah, you are," he says, and finishes signing them in with a flourish. "C'mon, I'll buy you a shot."

"You're lucky I don't shoot you," Chris grumbles, but it's hard to be annoyed in the face of Jensen's honest and open enthusiasm. Sort of like kicking a puppy, if a puppy had five inches and a good thirty pounds of muscle on him.

An hour later, Chris is pretty sure there's not enough alcohol in the world for this. Louisiana has got some of the most tone-deaf people on the planet, or maybe it's this bar, Chris doesn't know. But, _man_ , everyone kinda sucks, and all they wanna sing is boyband bullshit. He blames American Idol, really. Everyone thinks they can be a star, and everyone thinks they got what it takes to make it. He wants to tell all of them about friends of his – real musicians with real talent – that've toiled for years without recognition, but he knows it would fall on deaf ears. _Tone_ -deaf ears.

He's laughing at his own admittedly bad joke when the emcee calls Jensen's name. Jensen downs his shot, lets out a wolf-like howl, and claps Chris on the back, the touch lingering, before he strides up to the small stage and takes the mike. Chris has no idea what Jensen's up to, but he knows that look.

The bar is so fucked.

Jensen confers with the emcee for a minute, then turns that mega-watt Hollywood, freckled smile loose, and it's like a bolt of lightning's hit the bar. Everyone stares, including Chris, and he's seen that smile directed his way more than once. Normally it's right before Jensen does some crazy-ass thing.

"Alright, so, this one's for my good buddy, Chris, because he don't wanna sing with the rest of us tonight –" Jensen holds up his hands when the crowd starts hootin' and hollerin' " – but I'm aiming to fix that, and since nothing else I've tried has worked, I'll just have to shame him into it."

When the first strands of Bad Company's 'Feel Like Makin' Love' start, Chris closes his eyes and drops his head to his chest. Good Lord. Jensen cannot be –

_Baby, when I think about you  
I think about loooooooooooooove_

Jesus H, he really is.

Chris watches, listens, in startled amazement as Jensen croons into the microphone like he's Etta James or Marilyn Monroe singing for Kennedy or something. Every word is low, breathy, sultry as lazy summer afternoons, and, the entire time, Jensen's staring at Chris with smoky green eyes, pinning him in place.

_Darlin', if I live without you  
I live without loooooooooooove_

Hands down, it's the dirtiest, most pornographic version of this song that Chris has ever heard. He can't believe – well, that's not exactly true. He _can_ believe Jensen's doing this. He doesn't need to look around to know that the women are all staring at Jensen like they're imagining him naked and sweaty, and, hell, probably some of the men. With those full lips and soulful eyes and swaying hips...even Chris has to adjust himself.

For a moment that stretches into infinity, he remembers, with vivid clarity, what those lips had felt like against his.

When the song ends, the entire bar is stunned into silence for a few beats – then it erupts into wild applause and catcalls for an encore. Jensen flashes a bright, open grin, sultry temptation disappearing as quickly as it had appeared.

But Chris still can't quite catch his breath.

"Well, Chris?" Jensen asks, speaking into the microphone. "You coming up to sing or am I gonna have to break out the big guns and do Zeppelin next?"

As far as dirty threats go, that's one of the best ones Chris has ever heard. "Fuck it," he sighs, and stands. Because, yeah, maybe he can't resist Jensen's smile. And maybe Chris still sort of owes him for the bruises. And maybe, really, the idea of Jensen doing 'Whole Lotta Love' would be like overkill.

And maybe, just maybe, mind, Jensen's got a point.

"They got any David Allen Coe?"

"We're in Louisiana," Jensen replies, as if that settled the matter.

_  
When it's the bottom of the ninth, bases loaded and two outs? Swing for the motherfucking fences –_

  
It's hours later when Chris and Jensen stumble into their motel room, Chris leaning heavily on Jensen for balance. Not that he's drunk precisely – buzzed, sure – but Jensen seems to think he is, and Jensen feels warm and solid against him, so Chris is milking it for the moment. One song had turned into half a dozen, and, at some point, someone had produced a guitar. Which had led to Jensen and Chris performing a couple of Kane songs, with Jensen providing backing vocals in that clear voice of his, and Chris can't remember the last time he's had so much fun just sittin' in front of a crowd and playing his own music.

He's been missing simple joy in his life for too long.

He half-stumbles into Jensen's back when Jensen opens the door to their motel room, and the kiss is more an accident than anything else. One second, Jensen's turning to laugh at him for his clumsiness, and the next, Chris is leaning in to nibble on Jensen's lower lip. There's a stunned, breathless moment of stillness, then Jensen kicks the door shut behind him, and pushes, mouth slanting over Chris' like he's starving and Chris' mouth is his last meal. Chris can taste acrid smoke mixed with the sharper bite of Jack Daniels and he thinks it just might be better than the last time.

Then Jensen shoves him away, chest heaving as if he's run a marathon, and the abrupt loss is like a slap in the face.

"It's not what you think." The instant the words are out of his mouth, Chris wants to take them back.

"You have _no_ idea what I think," Jensen bites back.

"Okay, then, tell me."

For a second, Chris is sure that Jensen's going to ignore it. Ignore him. Then Jensen just gives a little shrug. "What I _think_ is that you don't know shit from shinola most days," he finally says, in a low, controlled voice. "Especially about me. And I _think_ I'm done being your whipping boy and some goddamn substitute."

What the hell? "Substitute? I don't...I _don't_ think you're a substitute, alright."

"Fuck it, man, just – stop, already." Jensen rubs a hand over his face. "I'm tired and drunk and fucked up and it doesn't matter, alright."

"Yeah, it does," Chris argues. He's got a bad feeling that something important's going wrong, and he has no idea how to fix it. "I mean –"

Jensen's fingers are warm over his lips, stilling his words. "It's alright. I'm not Janet. I won't throw anything at your head, I promise."

They both smile at the memory, even though that night had capped a new low for Chris. Then again, he's never had much luck with women not going crazy on him at some point.

"We're good like we've been," Jensen continues. "No need to up and change that just 'cause we're both horny."

"But I...it's _not_ like that." Chris isn't exactly sure what it _is_ like, but he knows it's not what Jensen's thinking.

Whatever it is Jensen's thinking.

"Well, you just let me know when you figure it out, then." Jensen's smile holds more than a little bit of drunken challenge. "I'm gonna hop in the shower."

He leaves Chris in the middle of the room, and Chris stands there, blinking, half-hard, and thinking about that smile. He listens to the sound of the shower starting, and thinks about Jensen's skin, slick and soft and muscled, thinks about the fact that he can't quite get the taste of Jensen's kiss out of his head. Thinks about how hot Jensen had looked getting his dick sucked, how debauched and dirty, about the unbelievably filthy things that he'd said to...well, whatever her name had been. About how Jensen's always pushed Chris into all kinds of shit, but has always had his back...

Fuck it, man. He's done being a coward.

With a decisive nod, he goes stomping to the bathroom and yanks on the shower curtain. Jensen stares back at him, naked and wet, hair slicked back from his face, soap in hand. He doesn't even flinch.

Chris doesn't dare look down. If he does, he'll never say what he needs to.

"You do realize this is more fucked up than a truckstop queer giving blowjobs, right?"

Jensen tilts his head, brows furrowed in confusion. "What's that?"

"This," Chris replies, and yanks on the back of Jensen's head to bring their mouths together for a hard, messy kiss. He can still taste the Jack, but under it all, there's something more elusive, raw, a taste he's been craving since the first time he'd had it. The soft rasp of Jensen's stubble scrapes across his chin like sandpaper. "Jensen, I..." He falters, stops.

Jensen simply smiles. "Chris, man, _relax_. It's just sex. I ain't gonna ask you to marry me."

Chris' laughter surprises him, loosens a knot from somewhere deep inside. "Yeah. Yeah, you're right."

When he steps under the spray, clothes on and all, Jensen's right there, pressing him against the tile, lips against his, asking permission with the flicker of his tongue. Chris opens his mouth, answering with a low moan, and lets go, lets it happen.

Soft lips traverse from his mouth across his cheek to his bruised eye, and Chris lets out a hitched breath at the gesture. One of Jensen's hands slithers under his shirt, thumb ring cool and metallic over his skin, and the contrast has him gasping into the next meeting of lips.

Jensen murmurs something indistinct, then moves his hands up, peeling off wet clothing, warm hands slickly gliding across his chest and stomach, stopping to trace each rib, the concave hollow at the top of his abs, following the matted trail of hair down to the waistband of his jeans. It's like Jensen's looking to memorize Chris by touch, like there might be quiz later and he wants to ace the hell out of it.

Then Jensen fumbles with the zipper of Chris' jeans, and it takes the both of them to get him out of the damn things. Jensen's warm laughter rings in his ears when they both almost slip.

"Careful now, you break your skull, and I'll never let you live it down."

"You _would_ tell everyone," Chris grins, pressing tips of his fingers push along the muscled planes of Jensen's back, down to the hollow of lean hips.

Jensen slides against him, naked and slick, the hot spray of the shower steaming the air around them. "Damn right I would," he replies, and bites at Chris' lower lip.

"Is this...?" Chris ducks in for another kiss, another taste. "Is this what...?"

"Yesss," Jensen hisses, and grinds against him, slow heat mixed with desire. "God, Chris..."

Chris thumps his head on the tiles hard enough to see stars when Jensen slithers to his knees and wraps tight lips around the head of his cock. His hands slide through wet strands of hair as he looks down, breath catching. Full lips stretch over him, slide with every lazy bob of Jensen's head, and this is so fucked up and probably the alcohol talking, but god _damn_ , Jensen's good with his mouth. And Jensen's tongue fluttering along the underside of his cock is pure erotic gold.

"Jesus, Jensen," he murmurs, barely aware he's even speaking out loud. When Jensen releases him with a loud pop and slides back up along his body, he can't tear his gaze from the bruised look to Jensen's lips. It's a very good look on him.

"Best you've ever had, right," Jensen jokes, bracing his hands on either side of Chris' head as he ducks in for another kiss. And Chris wouldn't exactly say the _best_ – that honor belongs to Katie Bowman in his senior year of high school – but Jensen's pretty far up the list.

When Jensen lifts his head, they're plastered together again, chests and cocks and thighs rubbing against each other in a slow dance. "We should take this to the bed," Jensen says softly, and reaches down to shut off the water.

Chris thinks that's the best goddamn idea anyone's had ever.

His hands are clumsy, rough when he dries himself off, and he almost drops the towel twice because he keeps casting glances out of the corner of his eye at Jensen. At the acres of golden skin and the rippling muscles underneath. "Seriously, how much have you been benching?"

"Uh..." Jensen looks down at his chest, tosses the towel to the floor, and shrugs. "I dunno, man, 225, but I do a lot of pushups between my reps."

"Well, it works."

Jensen snatches Chris' towel from him, and presses close, eyes dancing with laughter. "You been checking me out?"

"Yes," Chris replies, not even bothering to deny it, and pulls Jensen down to him for a slow, open-mouthed kiss, whiskey mixing with mirth.

A warm breeze is blowing from the open window, plain white curtains billowing as the wind shifts. Chris can smell saltwater and seaweed, a scent he always associates with the Gulf, as they tumble out of the bathroom and onto the bed, kissing and touching each other in equal measure. A hand glides along his flank as he trails his fingers across strong shoulders. Legs tangle, hairs rubbing and sticking together, and Chris can feel the steady thump-thump of Jensen's heartbeat against his own. Jensen's hands are strong, work-rough, press a lot harder against his skin than he's used to, but it's good. Damn good, even.

He still can't believe he's here, that they're doing this, but he sure as hell isn't gonna stop. It's actually nice, odd in that good way, to be with someone who's interested in going slow and easy, like they've got all night, all year, even, to explore each other.

He can't remember the last time he's wanted to take his time with anything. Can't remember the last time he'd cared. But this is Jensen – one of his best friends – and if a person can't make the effort for a friend, then there's just no hope.

Chris follows the goosebumps along Jensen's arm – stopping at his wrist, the crook of his elbow, the muscled line between his bicep and triceps – to his shoulder, collarbone, lazily moving over soap-scented skin.

"Thought about this..."

"Yeah?"

Chris nods his assent, and smooths a hand over Jensen's cock, lightly tracing the veins and ridges, smearing pre-come across the tips of his fingers. "Couldn't get the taste of you out of my mind."

Jensen's eyes glitter with something dark when he smiles. "Good," he says, the sound a purr against Chris' lips, and his tongue pushes past Chris' teeth before he can make a reply. Talking's pretty overrated, anyway.

Jensen's hands sweep over him, the touches callused, slow, and he follows the path with his lips, igniting a fire just under Chris' skin. A soft tongue darts at his nipple, gentle teeth rake over his ribs, soft words are murmured against his hips, and it's easy enough to lie back. Enjoy.

"You're awfully good at this," he remarks, then jumps when Jensen's teeth find a sensitive spot along his collarbone, stubble abrading his skin.

"This is nothin'," Jensen jokes, spiderwalking his fingers down Chris' stomach and stopping just above his groin.

"Jen..." Chris places his hand over Jensen's, guides it down.

"Always about the money shot," Jensen complains, even as he closes his fingers around Chris' cock, begins a slow, maddening rhythm that has Chris praying to every deity he can for control.

"C'mere," he rasps, and yanks on the back of Jensen's head, teeth clanking together as he explores the inside of Jensen's mouth with a questing tongue, shuddering each time Jensen's fingers tighten over him, each time the thumb ring slides along his length.

When Jensen lifts his head, his smirk is part dare, part need. "Your turn."

Much as Chris is reluctant to lose the feel of those clever fingers, fair is fair. And it's past time to see if he can make Jensen moan. "Guess I could be persuaded," he says, and wastes no more time pushing Jensen to the pillows and slithering down.

After all, he _is_ all about the money shot.

He opens his lips, slides down, tongue flickering over the slit of Jensen's cock, catching on small droplets of pre-come. The hot, heavy taste fills his mouth as he bobs his head, and he's not very good at this at all, but Jensen doesn't seem to care. At least, not if the way the moans and bucking of his hips are anything to go by. Chris hums a little on the next slide down, the sound vibrating along Jensen's length, back into Chris, and he slips when Jensen thrusts up, chokes a little.

"You okay?" Jensen's concerned voice floats down to him, gentle fingers brushing across his cheeks.

"Yeah," Chris answers, lifting his head long enough to smile. "Just...been awhile."

"I know," Jensen says, and, before Chris can puzzle out how Jensen would know that, Jensen twists around until his face is level with Chris' crotch. When Chris blinks and stares down, Jensen just grins. "Easier this way. Slow."

Chris has a lot of opinions and thoughts on 69ing, but easy and slow aren't two of them. Not that he's going to argue precisely, especially not when Jensen digs his hand into Chris' hip and unhinges his jaw, swallowing Chris' cock like a goddamn pro. He just lets out a sharp, short gasp, and tries his best to give as good as he's getting.

The angle this way is all fucked up, weird, with both of them on their sides, and pretty soon, Chris has lost all feeling in one arm from trying to push up to get any sort of leverage. His one thigh trembles with the effort of holding it up, and his throat aches with every thrust of Jensen's cock, but fuck, _fuck_ , he never wants to stop. Jensen's lips are obscenely tight over him, and he keeps doing some wild butterfly thing with his tongue that Chris tries his best to emulate, but all he can mostly do is moan around Jensen's cock and try to awkwardly move as best he can. Every time he takes a breath, the skin of his torso sticks to Jensen's skin, sending heated shocks along a body already clamoring, aching for more.

Then one of Jensen's hands finds its way between Chris thighs, cupping over his balls, and the shock of it explodes across his senses like a bomb. He tries to give a warning, but Jensen pushes his hips forward at that exact moment, and he grabs a handful of Jensen's ass instead, swallowing as much of Jensen's cock as he can as Jensen's throat works, milking him dry.

Lassitude fills him, and his vision blurs as he closes his eyes. _Jesus..._ The first thick, bitter splash of come gags him when it hits his throat, but he gamely tries to swallow as much as he can. Some of it dribbles across his mouth and chin in spite of his best efforts, but he can't even manage the energy to do anything about it as he flops to his back, vertigo spinning through him, causing the room to tilt.

He feels Jensen moving again, then warm lips dragging across his chin, and his cock gives an interested twitch at the thought of Jensen licking up his own come, but Chris can't even get his eyes to open to enjoy the sight. "Killedme," he mumbles instead, and manages to pat Jensen's back once before it slides down, then off.

"I hope not," Jensen replies, the sound pleased, satisfied, in his ear. "Didn't think you were ever gonna get it, you know."

Chris doesn't even bother to lift his head. However, he does open his eyes this time. Jensen's smile is just this side of smug, eyes bright and clear, cheeks flushed, lips shiny with spit and come. He looks like a pornstar, which shouldn't look as hot as it does. "Hmmm?"

Jensen points between the two of them. "Dave tried to warn me. Said you were a slow one with the hints."

"Uh..." Chris struggles through his post-orgasmic euphoria, and wobbly rises to his elbows, brows furrowed. "Wait a minute. You sayin' Dave _knew_?" Which isn't even the question he wants to ask, but being befuddled'll do that.

Jensen's laughter is soft, amused. "You are so blond sometimes, man." Before Chris can sputter out a response, Jensen rolls on top of him, solid warmth pinning him back to the bed. "Chris, why do you think _I'm_ here kicking your sorry ass?"

"Well, I..." Then Chris thinks about it, now that he _can_ think. _Jensen_ , not Dave or Jason or, hell, even Steve. When it hits him, all he can do is shake his head. "That's a lot of effort just to get laid."

"Yeah, well, if I'd wanted easy, I'd've stayed in Texas," Jensen replies, with a light kiss to Chris' jaw. "But if you don't want Jason to know how bad you've been treating me..."

Chris can only laugh, then gasp, as Jensen's fingers close over him.

_  
It's not the journey or the destination. But who you have with you along the way –_

  
The jogging pants hit him in the face, wake him from a dead sleep with a muffled curse. "The hell..."

"Come on." Jensen's teeth gleam white in the dark.

"Wha –?"

When he cracks his other eye open, he sees Jensen – in a t-shirt and sweatpants – standing at the foot of the bed. "Get dressed. Meet you outside."

Three minutes later, huffing, wife-beater and jogging pants on, feet shoved hastily into boots (no socks), Chris steps out onto the patio. He looks at Jensen, who simply points up. The meteor shower up above them is as unexpected as it is beautiful.

Jensen's voice is a low hum in his ear. "They say when you see one of these you're supposed to make a wish."

And Chris thinks about it, about all the things he should have had, all the things he'd done, mistakes he'd made – and there've been some doozies – and maybe he'd wish it all away. But then, everything he'd ever done has brought him to this point. To this life. And maybe it's not perfect, but hell, what is? It's _his_.

He bumps shoulders with Jensen, companionable and close. "Thanks," he says, a moment later.

He doesn't need to look to know Jensen's smiling. "What friends are for."

"Yeah, well, maybe I'm thanking you for the reminder."

Jensen leans his elbows on the railing, and gives Chris a long look. "My Uncle Jack usedta say there were three things you couldn't tell a man unless he was your best friend – everything else was fair game."

"I'm listening."

"That a man's bad in bed, that he's a lousy driver and that he hasn't got a sense of humor. But a good friend – the best and truest of friends – well, they can tell you all that. Y'follow?"

And yeah, Chris thinks maybe he does. Thinks maybe he finally, really does get why Jensen's here. "Well," he drawls, slowly testing each word, "it's a good thing, because we both know you're a lousy driver."

He knows he's made the right choice when Jensen grins back at him. "Maybe, but at least I'm not known as 60-second man."

Chris lifts an eyebrow. "You know better."

"And no sense of humor," Jensen continues, with a sad, tsking sound. "You're lucky I like you anyway."

"This your way of asking me to prove myself again?"

"Well..." Jensen draws out the word on a wink.

Chris slaps Jensen on the back. "Last one on the bed rides bitch."

He's halfway inside before Jensen catches up with him.

  
End.  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This fic would not have been possible without the patience and fortitude of Dee and the eagle eye of Jenn. If this thing works, it's ALL because of them. :)
> 
> Written for the 2lineschallenge Fic Challenge. My lyrics were: _boys come along a dime by the dozen, that ain't nothing but ten cent lovin'_.
> 
> The 'flapjacks' scene is for Chris because [I owed her](http://azewewish.livejournal.com/482137.html?thread=5282905#t5282905).
> 
> But mostly, this is for Kassie aka Ethrosdemon. Because she dared me.


End file.
